


Learning by Example

by Evergreene



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, d'Artagnan Whump, minor violence and mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evergreene/pseuds/Evergreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 'The Challenge.' Bitter about their defeat and the death of their captain, some of the Red Guards decide to make an example of the newest Musketeer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to hold off posting this as I'm thinking about adding a second chapter, but then I realised that tonight is the first night without a new episode of the Musketeers. *sob* It might not be as good as a new episode, but hopefully it will help fill the hole! As always, thank you for reading and I'd love to know what you think. :)

It was the cold that woke him, a chill ache sunk deep into his bones that pulled him back from the dark so that he stirred, confused by the silence around him.

He could not hear Constance humming to herself as she kneaded the morning's bread; nor could he make out the grumbles of the his friends as they rolled from their blankets beside him: Aramis cheerful despite the early hour, Athos silent and Porthos ready to take a swing at anyone who looked at him funny. He wondered instead if he was back at home in Gascony, his father sitting at the table downstairs as he pulled on his boots, ready for the new day, but there was no cockerel crowing awake the rosy dawn, no animals lowing in the meadows, demanding care as they wandered through the dew-heavy grass. Instead, it was quiet and chill and he did not know where he was, nor, for a moment, who.

Finally, he remembered. Wine cellar. Red Guards. Ambushed. Injured. Alone.

Opening his eyes, he drew in a breath, then began to choke as his ribs constricted, the broken bones shifting against each other. It had been too long, he knew that, too late for rescue, too difficult to escape. He was going to die and that was all there was to say.

\-----------------

_'You gonna be alright to get home?'_

_He nodded. 'S'not far. Besides, I'm a Musketeer now, am I not?'_

_Porthos chuckled. 'That you are. A runty one, but you'll do. Just make sure you're on time tomorrow. Treville'll have my head if he hears I've kept you out this late before your first day on the job.'_

_D'Artagnan grinned at him, knowing he was drunk and relishing it. It had been good to celebrate, better than drowning the sorrows that came rolling back every time he thought of her hair, bright and burning red against his chest, her eyes alight as she turned, delighted by her first successful shot ..._

_'I'll see you tomorrow,' said Porthos, clapping him on the shoulder and interrupting his thoughts._

_He nodded quickly, too quickly, for his head swam as he waved goodbye and made his way along the street, concentrating on each step as it came, then forgetting himself and grinning as he remembered kneeling down that day before the king and rising again a Musketeer._

_About to turn into the side-street that led to the Bonacieux's, he paused. He lived at the garrison now. He had to go there. So he turned, made for the alley that Constance had shown him as a shortcut to headquarters, and nodded at the two Red Guards who were walking towards him._

_They came to a halt and he paused, confused. 'Gentlemen,' he started to say, but there was a sudden, wretched pain at the back of his head and he was toppling into blackness that had nothing to do with drink ..._

\------------------

Finally managing to catch his breath, he ignored the bite of the stone floor against his bare feet and the pull of his aching muscles, and tugged at the ropes above his head, trying to twist his bloodied wrists free.

There was no give, was never any give, and he subsided, fighting the tears that burnt furiously at the back of his eyes. He was a musketeer. He would not give up, would not give in to the desperation that threatened, despite how it pushed its way upon him.

But it had been so long, so many days, and he was tired ...

He jerked his head up. No. He could not fall asleep again, for that way lay death, a simple, terrible thing that terrified him because was so tempting.

It would not take long. A simple drift into a sleep from which he would not wake, a slowing of the breath, a way to escape the numbing cold that was sending shivers rattling through his body, a way to avoid the silent menace of the slowly seeping wound in his side. It was the only bit of warmth available to him and that, more than anything, made him want to surrender, for how desperate did a man have to be before he was grateful for the comforting trickle of his own blood?

\-----------------

_There were six of them, Red Guards all, each with a heavy cloth tied to hide his face, but wearing their colours proudly. He thought he recognised one of them, a man often seen at the Cardinal's side, part of his personal guard, but the thought went out of his head at the first blow that rocked his skull back against the wall._

_'Musketeer scum.'_

_He stayed silent, licking his split lip and gazing up at them as they exchanged glances between themselves. Then a laugh rang out and it was like a floodgate had been opened. Taunts and hoots and blows rained upon him and it was all he could do to batten himself down, turn his head into his arms and wait as the insults flew._

_'I heard he's from Gascony. A farm boy, fresh from shovelling shit!'_

_'The Musketeers take all sorts these days. What's Treville up to? Next he'll be taking gutter rats, if he hasn't already!'_

_'How many palms do you think this one had to grease to gain a commission so quickly?'_

_Strong fingers grabbed at his chin and his head was forced up, another hand grasping at his hair, tangling, twisting it so his scalp screamed. 'Is that what you think he did? Look at him! He's pretty enough to be one of your whores, Gagnan! Tell me, d'Artagnan of Gascony, how many musketeers did you have to lay with before they'd accept you into their ranks?'_

_He wrenched his head away at that, snapped his teeth at the lingering fingers and received a back-hand to the face for his trouble._

_He touched his tongue to his lip, felt the blood there and scowled up at the man who had spoken. 'I got in on talent,' he hissed. 'Something you've never heard of, I'd wager.'_

_There was a chuckle above him, deep and dark. 'Talent? Now there's an idea. Shall we give him a chance to prove himself, men?'_

_There was a chorus of cheers and he was hauled to his feet, his bonds cut away and a sword pushed into his hands. He hefted it, took a couple of practise swipes, then turned to face the man who stepped forwards with his own sword drawn._

_He was cocky, buoyed by his new commission despite his aching head and the way his vision swam, certain that he would escape or at least be found soon by his friends, and it was not long before his opponent was on the ground, cowering as d'Artagnan pressed his blade into his neck._

_'Let's talk again about talent, shall we?' he suggested, turning to look at the Guard who had proposed the duel, only to be hit from behind once more and sent tumbling to the ground himself._

\---------------------

That had become the rhythm of his life. He would be shaken awake, a hard crust of bread dropped at his feet that became harder to eat with every passing day, a bucket of water thrown over him so as to quench his thirst and a weapon shoved into his hand as he was hauled to his feet to fight his newest challenger.

There were only four of them left now.

\---------------

_'A plaything for the child,' Clariel taunted, throwing the sword down at his feet as three of the Red Guards stepped forward, drawing their own weapons with thin rasps of folded metal._

_D'Artagnan bent down, picked it up and stared silently at the wooden toy, crudely hewn and clumsy. It was light and its reach far short of a real sword, and his opponents were laughing as they moved threateningly towards him._

_He killed two of them with it before he was driven to his knees and whipped with the buckle on the final man's belt._

\----------------

They had stopped wearing the masks and he knew them now, knew their voices, their footsteps, the sound of their breathing. Clariel was tall and lean, with whippet-like strength that had proved d'Artagnan's downfall more than once. Gagnan was shorter, with a fine goatee on which he prided himself and could always be seen grooming. Tasse was the one who enjoyed taunting him about his years on the farm and Levesque was the worst, big and bold and powerful, a man who enjoyed his position in the Red Guards and the fear he could spread through it.

He had not seen any of them in two days. He had not seen _anyone_ in two days, had not eaten, had not drunk, had barely moved in the cold, damp cellar. His strength was going, the rats were coming closer and it was harder than ever to stay awake through the pain in his side and the thirst that burned in his throat, making him cough and rasp and wish for death to take him.

But then there was a sound, one he had not heard for hours beyond count. He stirred, forced his head up and saw the narrow edge of grey at the bottom of the door opposite him grow and stretch as the door screeched open, allowing a modicum of light to seep into the cellar for the first time in he did not know how long.

A bulky form appeared, dark and indistinct and d'Artagnan huddled into his bound arms, his eyes watering after so long in blackness, but there was the sound of heavy boots on the cellar floor and then a voice, hoarse and disbelieving.

'D'Artagnan? That you?'

There was a flurry of movement and Porthos was beside him, his large palm pressed against his cheek, holding his head up against the rough wall, meaning he no longer had to find the strength to support it himself. There was a muttered curse and then his ears were ringing as Porthos turned to shout towards the door.

'In here! Athos, Aramis! Get in here! Now!'

And then there were more figures around him. Aramis's sure hands were warm against his side, tugging back his torn shirt, and Athos had a vice-like grip on his shoulder and was staring at him, his face so white and drawn and looking even graver than usual. Treville was issuing orders as he pulled out a knife to cut the ropes around his wrists and Porthos was still muttering curses as he rubbed his numb fingers, making them tingle like a snapping fire as they came slowly back to life.

Through it all and a haze of pain, d'Artagnan realised that he was safe and he was found and whilst he might still be cold and injured, he was no longer alone. And that turned out to be the only thing worth saying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I first planned, but I've finally managed a second chapter that tells the other side of the story (featuring more comfort than hurt this time!) with one more to come. Thank you to everyone whose lovely comments encouraged me along and I hope you enjoy!

Even with d’Artagnan freed, Aramis was reluctant to leave the cellar. Perhaps, he thought, they had spent so much time searching, it had not yet registered they had found their missing friend. Perhaps it was because he wanted to understand how men he had known, by sight if nothing more, could have done such a thing to a fellow soldier. Or perhaps it was because of Athos, who was standing where d'Artagnan had been tied, staring silently at the bloodied ropes that snaked across the floor.

Wanting to break the silence that had fallen, he stepped forwards, yet his foot caught on something that clattered across the cobbles, stopping only when it hit the wall. Stooping, he picked it up. It was a wooden sword, a child's plaything really, barely longer than his forearm. He smiled at it crookedly, imagining a young boy running across a courtyard, brandishing the toy wildly at his despairing parents. Then his eyes caught on something he wished an instant later he had never seen.

'Athos.' His voice was thick and did not sound like his, but Athos turned regardless, his face grim and almost hidden under the brim of his hat.

Wordlessly, he held out the toy and Athos took it up, his lips thinning as he saw the dried blood that stained the blade, right up to the pommel.

'Do you think - ?' Aramis started, but he stopped as he saw the look on Athos's face.

The sword dropped to the ground, rattling bare against the stone, and Aramis watched his friend walk silently to the door.

After a long moment, he followed.

\---------------

_'Shall I assume that you and d'Artagnan had a good night then?'_

_Porthos groaned and buried his head more deeply into his hands. 'Don't talk so loud.'_

_With a grin, Aramis sat down at the wooden table beside Porthos, taking care to make as much noise as possible. 'And you made it home without any trouble?'_

_'What's it to you?'_

_'Nothing at all!’ he said innocently as he removed his hat and set it before him. ‘Though a little bird told me you staggered into your lodgings at an hour most decent people would call ungodly and then slept on the stairs.'_

_Porthos raised his head and glared at him. 'How is it you always know what I've been doing?' he said suspiciously._

_Aramis shrugged airily. 'I may have met your landlady once…. or twice, as the case may be.'_

_Putting his head back on the table and closing his eyes, Porthos muttered a curse that made Aramis raise his eyebrows. 'Language, Porthos!' he exclaimed. 'You’re fortunate there are no impressionable youths about or Treville would have you polishing every pair of boots in the garrison.'_

_Porthos cracked an eye open, though it looked as though the effort caused him considerable pain. 'Talking of impressionable youths,' he said, 'has d'Artagnan arrived yet? I owe him a kicking for letting me keep on drinking after you and Athos left.'_

_Taking pity on him, Aramis shook his head. 'Not yet. But if he's in the same condition as you are, it may be some time before he crawls his way out of bed. Still, that leaves us time for some breakfast! What do you say?'_

_Porthos groaned again. 'Do me a favour,' he said. 'Don't talk to me about eating for the next week or so.'_

_Aramis just grinned as he pushed up from the table and went to find some food to fill the sizable hole in his stomach._

_\------------------_

Outside on the street, Aramis climbed up on the wagon besides d’Artagnan, examining him for the first time in the pale, misting rain that had accompanied the dawn. 'He looks as though he's been half-starved,’ he muttered. ‘And I doubt he's had much water either. Here-' he pointed to the flask that hung from his horse's saddle. 'Pass that to me.'

Porthos handed it to him and he tipped it carefully upwards, letting a trickle of water fall onto d’Artagnan’s crusted lips. There was no response, so he did it again, cradling d’Artagnan’s head in his hand to make sure he took some in.

'What can I do?' demanded Porthos, leaning over the wagon side and tugging the pile of blankets that Athos had brought higher on d'Artagnan's chest.

'Nothing, for the moment. We just need to get him somewhere he can rest. Then it's up to him.'

'Will he make it?'

Aramis pressed the back of his hand to d'Artagnan's forehead, then against his cheek, his gaze hardening as he noticed the sickly yellow bruise that stretched across it. 'He has a fever and is suffering from lack of food and water.’ He paused. ‘It may be touch and go for a while, but he is young, and strong besides. He stands a better chance than most.'

'But his wounds-'

'-can be treated once we have him home.'

Porthos nodded sombrely. 'Just tell me what I need to do,' he said again.

Aramis spared a glance from his patient to look at his friend, who was still hovering over d'Artagnan - a mother bear protecting her cub. 'Porthos,' he said, softly enough so that Treville and Athos, who were climbing into the front seat of the wagon, would not hear. 'What happened to him was not your fault.'

Porthos shrugged. 'If I had seen him properly home, he never would have gone missing though, would he?'

'If you had seen him properly home, I would likely be tending two patients instead of one.'

'Or they wouldn't have attacked him at all.'

Aramis had no reply, so he busied himself making sure that enough blankets were packed on and around d'Artagnan to prevent the jolting of the wagon causing him more injury as it set off, struggling over the muddy road.

\------------------

_'Two days,' stated Porthos, showing the same number of fingers to Aramis, who leant back, tipping his chair back on its uneven legs as he watched. 'It's been two days since d'Artagnan went missing and we've found nothing.'_

_'We don't know for sure that he's missing.'_

_Porthos leant forward over the stained table, scowling. 'Where is he then? Huh?'_

_Aramis let his chair thump back onto the tavern floor. 'He could have gone home-'_

_'To what? His father's dead, his farm's gone, he's got no other family - where's he gonna go?'_

_'You heard what Treville said. He could have changed his mind. Decided the life of a Musketeer was not for him and wanted to avoid awkward farewells.'_

_Porthos stared at him. 'You don't believe that.'_

_'No.' Aramis let out a heavy sigh. 'No, I don't.'_

_They subsided back into silence, each lost to his own thoughts. Finally, Porthos glanced over to the shadowed corner of the tavern, where Athos was sitting slumped by himself, staring fixedly at the empty bottle before him on the table. With a pointed look at Aramis, he jerked his head towards the corner. 'What about him?’ he demanded. ‘He's done nothing but try and half-drown himself since d'Artagnan disappeared.'_

_Aramis followed his glance. 'Going by what Treville has said on the matter, Athos believes he left.'_

_'You're joking.' When Aramis shook his head, Porthos snorted. 'He's a damn fool then.'_

_'Or he's lying to himself.'_

_'Why would he do that?'_

_Aramis shrugged. 'I’d wager it’s easier for him, thinking that d'Artagnan has left rather than that he's missing ... perhaps dead. Or else it is what I have long suspected - our friend has been betrayed before and now prefers to think the worst of people, to avoid getting hurt later.' He raised his eyebrows at Porthos' sceptical look. 'Remember, Porthos, it is not often that Athos takes someone new into his confidence. D'Artagnan has been …how do I put it … an exception, to say the least.'_

_Porthos grunted. 'Still makes him a damn fool if he thinks for an instant d'Artagnan's scarpered.'_

_'I'm not sure he really does. He'll come round, you'll see. He just needs time.'_

_'That's something d'Artagnan might not have. He needs our help, I can feel it._ All _our help.'_

_Aramis was silent a moment, then stood to his feet. 'Once more round the square then? Perhaps someone will have had news of him by now.'_

_Porthos nodded. 'And what about that one?'_

_Aramis cast a last look back at Athos, observing how Athos' eyes flickered at once away from him, back to the wine bottle. 'He will find us when he is ready,' he said finally. 'Now come. We have a friend to find.'_

\----------------

D'Artagnan's new room in the garrison was simple - a bed, some shelves and a lone chair, but it was large enough for them all to be there as Porthos eased d'Artagnan onto the straw-filled mattress, muttering a low apology as d’Artagnan half-stirred before giving way to unconsciousness again.

Satisfied his newest recruit was safely housed, Treville left to fill in his reports and Aramis got to work with a clean cloth and a dish of water that quickly blackened as he dabbed away the dirt of several days. Porthos played assistant, propping d'Artagnan up so that Aramis could remove the stiff leather shoulder cuff, its once proud fleur-de-lis now coated in blood and grime, and holding him still as Aramis probed at his ribs, frowning as they shifted under his touch.

'Broken,' he murmured, reaching for a bandage that Porthos quickly supplied. 'He won't be riding for a while.'

They continued working in a silence that was broken only when they saw the first purpling imprint of a belt buckle, low against d'Artagnan's spine. Porthos stilled, then cursed and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A few moments later, there was the crash of splintering wood.

Aramis sighed and returned to his ministrations, taking care to pretend that he did not see d'Artagnan's eyes flicker open before closing again. Instead, he allowed them both to make-believe that d'Artagnan was still unconscious whilst making a silent promise that he would set his young friend straight about the shame that flushed his cheeks as soon as he had begun to heal.  

At the side of the room, Athos watched it all, a silent sentinel that refused to take part.

\------------------

_'All the evidence points to him having left by choice.'_

_Porthos shook his head, placing his fists knuckle-down on the desk behind which Treville sat, his arm bound in a sturdy sling against his body. 'Then you’re looking at it wrong.'_

_Treville eyed them, glancing from Porthos to Aramis, who stood next to him, and then at Athos, who was slumped against the closed door of the office, his hands slung low in his belt and his head down. 'Let us examine the situation then. His belongings are gone-'_

_'Stolen.'_

_'-his horse has vanished-'_

_‘Doesn't mean anything except whoever took him are thieves as well as cowards. And that they're smart enough to be covering themselves.'_

_‘You have said yourself that he had recently lost the affections of someone close to him. Perhaps that was why he left. He was young, after all.'_

_Aramis stepped forward, his hat in his hands. ‘It wouldn’t have changed anything. What d’Artagnan wanted was to become a musketeer.’_

_‘And that’s exactly what he did. He proved it to himself and everyone else. Perhaps that was all he wished to accomplish.’_

_Aramis shook his head in denial. 'You saw d'Artagnan's face when he received his commission from the king. We all did. It meant everything to him.'_

_Treville looked at him for a long moment, then heaved a sigh and leant back in his chair. 'I'm sorry, I am. But until you have some evidence that d’Artagnan has come to harm, I cannot pull more men off their duties to search for him. I will make some enquiries myself, but that is all I can do, at least for now. Know that if you find any sign of foul play, you will have my full support.'_

_Realising they would get no more from Treville, Aramis turned to Athos and Porthos and they left, Porthos slamming the door behind them harder than was probably necessary._

_Together, they descended the stairs, their boots ringing loud in the otherwise empty courtyard, and took a seat around the central table that was still littered with half a bottle of wine and some empty glasses, the remnants of the evening meal._

_Silence reigned._

_‘I was wrong.’_

_Aramis and Porthos turned as one towards Athos, who was staring, head down, at the scratched wooden table top beyond his folded arms. Aramis lifted a knowing eyebrow at Porthos, who snorted darkly._

_‘Changed your mind then, have you?’_

_Aramis shook his head reprovingly, but Athos looked up and met Porthos’ glare, not shirking away. ‘I was wrong,’ he said again. ‘D’Artagnan would not have left, not like this.’_

_Seeing that Porthos was about to say something more, Aramis stretched his leg out and stamped hard on his boot. ‘Truer words were never spoken,’ he announced lightly, going for a casualness he did not feel as, beside him, Porthos reached under the table to rub at his foot with a curse. ‘What was it that made you see sense?’_

_Athos lifted one shoulder. ‘You will remember that I saw his face that day too.’_

_Aramis exchanged a long glance with Porthos, who heaved a sigh and, releasing his foot, hefted the bottle of red wine that had been left on the table, raising it high. ‘Well then,’ he said grimly. ‘Here’s to you finally having your head on right.’ Pulling the cork out, he began to pour a drink for each of them, but Athos raised his hand, abstaining from the offer._

_‘I will decline, thank you.’_

_Aramis noted for the first time the rough rasp of his friend’s voice and the pallor of his skin. ‘Just how much wine have you had these past days?’ he enquired, taking a cup from Porthos._

_Athos grimaced. ‘That is between me and the club that is beating a hole in my skull.’ He looked at them both. ‘Where have you looked for him?’_

_‘We’ve hit just about every dead end in Paris,’ grumbled Porthos. He shook his head. ‘Can’t find a trace of him anywhere.’_

_‘Have you checked the Bastille? The Court of Miracles?’ They nodded and Athos frowned. ‘And what of Madame Bonacieux?’_

_‘First door we knocked on,’ said Porthos._

_Aramis, however, had just caught sight of a flash of flaming red hair that had just appeared under the archway on the opposite side of the yard. Setting his cup on the table, he leaned closer to Athos. ‘And what is more, now you have the chance to ask her yourself.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is way, way way overdue, but at last I've finished the next chapter of this fic, which has now expanded to four chapters. Huge thanks must be given to Sigmund, who managed to kick my brain into gear when I was deliberating over two endings - and to Persis for the continuing support! ;) Thank you as well to everyone who has left kudos and encouragement and I hope this chapter is worth the wait!

Aramis answered the soft knock on the door to see Constance Bonacieux standing there, a cloth-covered basket under her arm and anxiety written all over her face.

‘Madame Bonacieux,’ he said, running his fingers wearily through his hair and rumpling it even more.

She did not seem to hear him. Instead, she stood almost on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder into the silent room beyond. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s sleeping.’

‘Oh. That’s good. He needs the rest. After what happened.’

There was a pause.

‘Constance-’ he said finally, but she had already pushed past him to the narrow bed where d’Artagnan lay, a blanket stretched over him and his arms at his sides. Immediately, her hands went to her mouth and he stepped swiftly to stand beside her.

‘He looks worse than he is.’

She managed a nod in response, though her face was near as white as d’Artagnan’s as she took in the bruised circles under his eyes and the bulky bandages wrapped about his wrists, hiding from sight what Aramis knew to be skin torn to shreds by cruel ropes and crueller men. ‘Why would they do this to him?’ she asked, in a voice close to a whisper. ‘How could they-‘

Her voice broke and Aramis took a step closer, turning her to face him with a light hand on her arm. ‘He did nothing to deserve this,’ he told her firmly, making sure she met his eyes. ‘He was simply there. A target for the taking by callous men fuelled by grief and anger.’

‘Grief?’ Her voice rose. ‘How could grief make a man do this? D’Artagnan didn’t deserve it, not any of it!’

‘I know.’

She did not seem to hear him. ‘When I think of him lying in that cellar, trapped, for _days_ , not knowing if anyone was coming for him-’

He kept silent, letting her rage, knowing that she needed to get it out of her system - the helplessness, the fury, the fear.

They all had. In one way or another.

\--------------------

_Rising to his feet, Aramis lifted his hat as Constance halted before them, her skirts flapping and her hair in disarray._

_‘Madame Bonacieux.’_

_‘Have you found him yet?’_

_‘Who?’_

_The force of her slap sent him reeling as she advanced like an avenging angel, her hair glowing crimson in the light of the dying day. ‘Do you really think, Aramis, that now is the time for one of your jokes?’_

_Porthos stepped between them, his hands raised, but Constance had already swung round to Athos._

_‘I need your help.’_

_Athos, who had also risen to his feet, dipped his head in a half-bow. ‘We are at your service, of course, Madame.’_

_‘It may be nothing. I mean, how could it be anything? But I did think, as soon as I heard it, that it was a strange thing to say-’_

_‘Madame-’_

_‘-and with d’Artagnan missing like he is, well, I thought it best to check, or to ask you to check, because they won’t even let me through the door, not without my husband - and a lot of help he’s been…’_

_‘Constance.’_

_She halted abruptly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just … well … d’Artagnan’s been missing for days now and when I think of what I said to him-’_

_‘What did you say?’ Aramis asked immediately, his attention sparked as he rubbed at his burning cheek, but Athos cleared his throat meaningfully._

_‘If we could perhaps remain focused?’_

_Constance took a deep breath. ‘It’s just … well … my husband has recently received a new commission. From the Cardinal.’_

_‘The Cardinal?’ Porthos interrupted sharply. ‘How’d he get his hands on that then?’_

_Aramis thought he saw a shadow pass across Constance’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared and she did not answer Porthos’ question. ‘He looks after the uniforms worn by the Red Guards and today he was called to their garrison, to finalise a new order. I went with him and when we were there, I overheard some of the Guards talking.’_

_‘About what?’ said Aramis slowly, when she paused._

_Constance bit her lip. ‘About a farm boy.’_

_Aramis’ breath caught in his throat. At the table, Porthos had set his cup down, and Athos was staring at Constance, his face gone suddenly white._

_‘When was this?’ he said. His voice was even, but Aramis noticed a tension suddenly thrumming through it, like a sword just pulled free of its sheath._

_‘Around midday, I suppose. I left for here as soon as I could.’ Constance’s voice took on its own edge. ‘My husband is reluctant to let me out of his sight at the moment.’_

_Aramis’s mind raced over the chain of events that had led to d’Artagnan’s commission into the Musketeers. It decided him. ‘We have to tell the captain,’ he said. He glanced up towards the balcony where Treville’s office waited. ‘As Constance says, it could be nothing, but he needs to hear this.’_

_Porthos snorted. ‘Forget that. I say we go pay a visit to the Red Guards ourselves.’_

_Aramis shook his head. ‘No, if we are to accuse the Red Guards of something this serious, we must have the full weight of the law behind us.’ He turned to Athos for support, only to find him already halfway across the yard, demanding his horse be readied._

_With a curse, Aramis started after him. ‘Athos!’ he called. ‘Athos! We must tell the captain before we do anything, do you understand?’_

_Athos turned around. Cold anger radiated from him like a second skin and Aramis slowed, his hands raised in an attempt to calm him. ‘Athos, my friend,’ he started again, but Athos cut him off._

_‘Go to Treville,’ he said shortly. His voice was like steel. ‘Inform him that I will see him at the barracks and that I expect the Cardinal to be with him.’ He turned on his heel and strode away towards the stables, only pausing to call back over his shoulder, ‘I want d’Artagnan found before the night is out!’_

_Knowing it would be futile to attempt to stop Athos, Aramis turned to Porthos, who had come up beside him, big and silent. ‘Porthos-’_

_‘I know,’ said Porthos. ‘Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone.’ He tilted his neck to the side so it cracked threateningly. ‘Yet.’_

_He disappeared after Athos and Aramis turned to Constance, who was biting her lip as she looked after them. ‘Come, Constance,’ he said, ‘you must tell Captain Treville what you have just told us.’_

_‘But Athos-’_

_‘Athos does not lose his temper easily,’ he told her, ‘but when he does it is wise to get out of his way. Yet Porthos will be with him, and we shall be just behind. If d’Artagnan is to be found, we’ll find him.’_

_Her expression changed. ‘I can come with you? To the barracks?’_

_‘We will need you to identify the men you heard talking. Can you do that?’_

_Her mouth firmed, her gaze going hard and bright as new stone, and he was reminded anew of why d’Artagnan had fallen for this woman so hard and helplessly. ‘Try and stop me.’_

\------------------

Aramis watched from the doorway as Constance traced her finger lightly across d’Artagnan’s brow, following lines only she could see.

‘He had a fever,’ he said quietly, ‘but it broke.’

He did not mention the previous night, when d’Artagnan had fought him, Athos and Porthos like a demon, writhing under their grip as they had purged the wound in his side of an infection that had spread like a foul poison, ravaging his weakened body until they had feared he would succumb to it completely. It had been one of the longest nights of Aramis’ life, but as the day dawned d’Artagnan had at last slept peacefully, his breaths calm, his wound clean, and his skin finally dry of the feverish sweat that had plagued him.

Now, as he watched Constance tend to d’Artagnan, he felt suddenly the intruder. ‘I will leave you two alone,’ he said quietly, but Constance’s head jerked up and she turned around.

‘No! No, there’s no need. I must … get back to my husband.’

He looked at her, really looked for the first time since d’Artagnan had gone missing. Her cheeks were pale, her face drawn and she seemed _less_ than herself somehow. He wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had passed between her and d’Artagnan before the contest against LaBarge, but it seemed fated to be a question for another time as, with one last touch to d’Artagnan’s bruised cheek, Constance drew back and bent down to pick up the basket at her feet.

Silently she pushed it towards him and Aramis tugged back the soft white fabric to reveal several loaves of crusty brown bread and three neatly-folded shirts. The loaves smelt clean and fresh and the shirts of newly-done linen, and together they were a far cry from the close, dank sickroom where he had spent the last three days, seeing Athos and Porthos in and out as they kept as close a watch over d’Artagnan as their shifts would allow.

‘The shirts are d’Artagnan’s,’ Constance said quietly. ‘I found them when I was clearing out his room.’ She drew a deep breath and he could almost hear her forcing herself to sound cheerful. ‘He’ll be needing some more clothes when he’s up and about again.’

‘And causing as much trouble as usual, I’m sure,’ he finished. ‘I am sure he will appreciate them.’ He nudged a finger against one of the loaves. ‘And these, as well. He’s not up to dry food yet, but in a broth-’

‘Those are for you as well.’

He looked up to see her cheeks flush pink as she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘I thought you might be hungry. I know you’ve been caring for d’Artagnan these past days - Athos and Porthos too.’

A smile cracked his face and it felt almost foreign, it had been so long since his last. ‘Thank you, Constance. I am sure we will enjoy them.’

She was suddenly awkward. ‘I want you to know that I’m grateful. For all that you’re doing for him, I mean.’

‘I am glad to do it. He has saved my life more than once.’

She hesitated as though she did not know whether to say anything more, then the words tumbled out in a rush. ‘You’re good for him, you know – you and Athos and Porthos. He talks about you all the time. He’d do anything for you.’

A memory he had done his best to banish swamped him - of bloodied daggers in the dark and the sick thud of fists against flesh. His smile faded. ‘I assure you, Constance, the feeling is mutual.’

\----------------

_He rounded on Treville as he emerged from the cell where four Red Guards waited in chains, under arrest for attacking a King’s Musketeer. ‘Anything?’ he demanded._

_‘I’m afraid not.’_

_Aramis scrubbed his hand through his hair, the anxious pit in his stomach growing as he paced across the cramped guardroom. ‘What do they hope to gain from this last piece of deception? They have admitted their guilt, why won’t they tell us where he is?’_

_Treville lowered himself onto the low bench outside the door to the cell. ‘Think, Aramis,’ he said, reaching up to massage his injured shoulder. ‘They have admitted to making an unprovoked attack on a musketeer, a crime that already bears a serious punishment. What do you think will happen to them if the charge turns to murder?’_

_A chill ran up Aramis’s spine. ‘They don’t want us to find a body,’ he said slowly as the wooden door that led to the courtyard above opened wide and Porthos and Athos entered, their boots coated with the grime of the streets and with droplets of rain turning their blue cloaks to silver._

_Treville glanced up at them. ‘Well?’_

_Porthos removed his hat, dropping it onto the lone table against the near wall, where the stump of a candle sputtered and burned. ‘Nothing,’ he said gruffly. ‘No one’s seen hide nor hair of him, dead or alive. But we did find something interesting.’_

_‘What’s that?’_

_Porthos glanced at Athos. ‘Lachance and his company found two bodies dumped in a ditch a little way outside Paris. Red Guards, both of them. Word is that they were mighty friendly with Levesque and his lot and that they both went missing in the past week. Know what that means?’_

_‘It means d’Artagnan fought back,’ Aramis finished, a surge of hope burgeoning in his chest as Porthos gave a satisfied nod._

_Athos, however, did not appear to share their enthusiasm. Instead, he peeled off his gloves and tucked them silently into his belt before finally turning to Treville._

_‘We are wasting time,’ he said curtly._

_Treville’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’_

_‘Two days have passed since we arrested the men sitting beyond that wall. If d’Artagnan was alive when they last saw him, he will not be for much longer. We are running out of time, d’Artagnan even more so. What we need is answers and there is only one place we will get them.’_

_Treville’s gaze flicked to the door of the cell. ‘You know as well as I that not one of the men in there is willing to reveal anything more than he has already.’_

_‘Then we have no choice but to persuade them.’_

_A hard knot formed in Aramis’ chest at Athos’ words and he cast a quick glance at Porthos, who looked as grim as he felt._

_Treville was scowling. ‘I would not have us sink to their level.’_

_Porthos let out a hollow laugh. ‘There’s no need to worry about that, Captain. If you’d heard those bastards talking about d’Artagnan when Athos and I first got to the barracks the other day…’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘We’ve got a ways to go yet before we sink as low as them, believe you me.’_

_‘It is the only way,’ said Athos._

_Treville was silent a moment. Finally, he pushed himself up off the bench with his good arm and looked around, his gaze resting on each of them in turn. ‘I am going to the palace to make my report to the king,’ he said. ‘I will be back shortly.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps during my time away, our prisoners might find it in them to help us find our missing comrade.’_

_Athos nodded silently, his face unreadable, then turned and strode towards the prison cell, sliding a slim dagger from his belt as he went. Porthos shared a glance with Aramis, then squared his jaw and followed, pushing up his sleeves as though readying for a fight._

_About to join them, Aramis halted as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned to see Treville standing there, his face etched with deep lines._

_‘Remember, Aramis,’ Treville warned him, ‘whatever happens in there, those men must face justice for what they have done, if only to act as a warning against any similar attacks. We need them alive, do you understand me?’_

_He nodded, his heart heavy, and Treville’s grip tightened for a moment before dropping away. He listened to Treville’s footsteps retreating, fading out the door and up the stone passage beyond, then glanced at the doorway through which Athos and Porthos had disappeared. Finally, taking a deep breath, he steeled himself against what he and his friends were about to do and stepped towards the cell, drawing his rapier as he went._

\-----------------

Closing the door of d’Artagnan’s room gently behind them, he walked Constance down the stairs to the main courtyard.

‘Aramis?’ she said, as he held open the door for her.

He raised his eyebrows.

'Don't let him know I was here.'

He looked at her for a moment, taking in the mixture of worry and determination on her face. His gaze softened. ‘Not a word will pass my lips. You have my promise.’

She gave him a half-smile, the corners of her mouth quirking sadly, and then picked up her skirts and left, disappearing into the misty grey rain just as Athos and Porthos emerged out of it.

‘What was that about?’ Porthos demanded as he entered, nodding towards Constance’s retreating figure as Aramis stepped aside to allow them both inside the shelter of the garrison.

‘What do you think? She came to see d’Artagnan.’

Porthos took off his hat, shaking it off onto the floor and scattering water droplets everywhere. ‘And now she’s gone back to that husband of hers, I suppose.’ He shook his head in disgust as Aramis shut the door tight behind him and Athos. ‘It’s not right.’

‘She is married,’ said Athos, brushing off his own hat. ‘I would imagine it is complicated.’ He nodded towards the narrow stairs and they started up them as he turned to Aramis. ‘How’s d’Artagnan?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Good.’ Coming to a halt on the landing outside d’Artagnan’s quarters, Athos glanced at the closed door. ‘I don’t want him to hear this, not yet.’

Aramis frowned, remembering where Athos and Porthos had been that morning. ‘You attended the trial then?’

‘We did.’

‘And?’

‘Each man is to receive a warning and ten lashes. Levesque has been exiled.’

Disbelief bubbled up inside Aramis. ‘That’s all?’

Porthos let out a bitter snort. ‘The Cardinal spoke for them before the king.’

Athos nodded. ‘He claimed that they were distraught by grief for their captain and that it drove them to rash actions they would never otherwise have entertained.’

Aramis let himself fall back against the stairway. ‘This is unbelievable. What did Treville have to say?’

Athos shrugged. ‘He’s not happy. He’s appealed to the king for a retrial to be held, when d’Artagnan is back on his feet and can speak for himself. In the meantime, however, Levesque and his men have lost the respect of their fellow soldiers and the Red Guards have lost the favour of the people of Paris.’

Porthos grinned, showing his first sign of mirth in some days. ‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing, Aramis, shut up in here. Paris hasn’t taken too kindly to what happened to d’Artagnan. The Red Guards can’t walk down a street without being pelted with rotten fruit…or having their pockets picked. And that’s not all. At least four fights have broken out between Red Guards and Musketeers in the last two days, and Treville’s turned a blind eye to all of them.’

Aramis huffed a laugh, then sobered. ‘Are we going to tell d’Artagnan about the outcome of the trial?’

‘Better that he hears it from us than from someone else,’ replied Athos. He frowned. ‘Has he woken yet?’

‘Barely, and when he has, he’s not said much.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘He’s stubborn. And proud. I believe it will take him some time to return to his usual self.’

‘We’ll help him,’ stated Porthos solidly. ‘Build up his strength again, get him working. He’ll be back on his feet before he knows it.’

Athos nodded. ‘The captain notified me today that the Queen is to go to the springs again before the turn of the season. It should be a simple enough mission – one that we can use to build up d’Artagnan’s strength without too much exertion. I’ll make the request of Treville.’

‘That’s settled then,’ said Aramis, and, his heart lighter than it had been for many days, he opened the door to find d’Artagnan struggling to push himself upright in the bed.

‘D’Artagnan!’ he exclaimed. He hurried forwards, the others close behind him.

D’Artagnan did not look at them, but instead shoved futilely at the heavy blankets covering him, one arm wrapped about his bandaged ribs. ‘I need to get up.’

His voice was not much more than a rasp, almost gone from days of disuse and thirst, but Aramis could hear the desperation in it, layered beneath a paper-thin veneer of determination. He moved forwards, but found Athos’ hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

‘Leave us.’

‘Athos-’

‘Leave us.’

He paused. D’Artagnan’s face was sallow under its tan, his eyes dark and shadowed, and he had yet to meet their eyes as he tried to push himself up and out of bed, his muscles too weak to accomplish what even a week ago would have been a simple task.

His heart constricted. ‘There is bread, in the basket by the door,’ he said. ‘Try to get him to eat something. Soak it in water if it is too rough.’

Porthos was looking from him to Athos to d’Artagnan, his face clouded with concern, so Aramis reached out and clapped him on the back, forcing a casualness that was so very far from what he felt. ‘Come, Porthos,’ he said. ‘D’Artagnan needs his rest.’ Porthos frowned, but followed him out of the door, which Aramis closed behind them before sinking back against it.

‘What was that about?’ Porthos demanded, turning on him. ‘D’Artagnan was awake, wasn’t he? That means he’s better.’

Aramis let the back of his head hit the door with a soft thunk. ‘There are many ways to injure a man, my friend,’ he said. ‘D’Artagnan’s body may be better, but I fear the rest of him is another matter…’


End file.
